


Crowley Has a Sensory Meltdown

by huggs5



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Author is disabled, Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, author is autistic, crowley is autistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 01:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19263640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huggs5/pseuds/huggs5
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.Unapologetically self indulgent.Autistic!Crowley which I’ll definitely be exploring more.





	Crowley Has a Sensory Meltdown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettydizzeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettydizzeed/gifts).



Here I am with some autistic!Crowley, inspired by @genderqueercrowley on tumblr. I love the headcanon that Crowley experiences chronic pain and this was meant to be aBout that but I didn’t plan it at all and it just turned into a Drabble about Crowley being autistic so... lol.. anyway more to come.

 

Aziraphale and Crowley are ineffable husbands who live together in the bookshop… now with a ridiculous amount of plants. I’ve never read the books and only just finished the show- I will probably get details wrong. I have lots of personal headcanons though…. Next is some great h/c where aziraphales book shop stays burned down because, like, my house burned down and i want to write about it and cry. Keep yourself posted on my tumblr!

 

——

 

Some days it’s not so bad. He can take the stairs, follow Aziraphale through the garden, get up and make tea… but sometimes it’s not so easy. He boils the water and would rather jump into it than get the pot out of the cupboard, tip tea leaves into the strainer, fetch the sugar cubes, pour out another cup of milk and then pack it all onto a serving platter and take it out into the shop. 

 

_ Drip… drip… _

 

Water to the metal sink feels like knives in his ears. Car horns, Aziraphale coughing, even the sound of his own breathing goes from unnoticeable background noise to pain ricocheting around his skull, sometimes instantaneously. It’s always been a bit like that from the beginning but it’s been getting worse. Ever since “the end of the world” and the book shop burning-

 

_ Sugar _ . 

 

Crowley pulls open a cupboard door, the wrong one.  _ Idiot _ . Opens another one, another, barely even seeing the contents. Where’s the sugar? He can’t tell the difference between a bottle of soy sauce and a bottle of vinegar, how can he tell the difference between Aziraphale’s stupid identical containers? Why would someone put themselves at the risk of tipping salt into their tea? Why wouldn’t you just keep it in the bag? Stupid. A hot flush of irrational anger at Aziraphale, specifically, overcomes Crowley for just a second, just too long. He slaps a bag of raisins out of the cupboard and slams the door.  _ What’s wrong with me? _ There was no point to that. Now he has to scoop them all up on top of making this fucking tea! He slams another door closed. 

 

_ “You alright in there dear?” _ Aziraphale calls from the shop. 

Fine- I’m fine.

_ “Honey?” _

Too much, too much, it’s too much. Crowley covers his ears with his hands. Don’t make me answer right now, I can’t talk. 

Almost as though Satan himself organised it, the kettle starts squealing. He can’t take this- he sinks to the floor, presses his forehead against the cold tiles. Crowley winds his fingers through his hair and pulls. The sensation takes away from the awful piercing shrieks he can’t block out completely, but it’s still too much. It feels like he’s going to explode and be crushed at the same time- if he doesn’t do something the noise is gonna get louder and louder inside his head until it takes over, completely engulfs him. It won’t stop. He knows he has to take the stupid kettle off the stove and it’ll stop screaming but if he takes his hands away it’s going to be so much louder and he CAN’T DO THAT right now. It hurts, it hurts so much. 

 

Aziraphale rounds the corner into the kitchen with a book in one hand and a bunch of dirty cups in the other. Crowley sits face down on the floor surrounded by raisins, kettle squealing, cupboard doors open. Aziraphale hurriedly takes the kettle off and places everything onto the counter before crouching down beside him, being careful not to squash too many raisins. 

“Are y-”

“Stop!” 

Aziraphale freezes with one hand hovering above Crowley’s shoulder. He’s shaking, fingers red where he’s wrapped hair around them and pulled as hard as he can. His shirt has fallen up exposing his skin to the cold but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. 

Gently, Aziraphale tugs his shirt back over the band of his sweatpants and rests his hand in the small of his back. Crowley groans in response. 

“Take your time, dear. Are you alright?”

“It’s too loud.”

“What is?”

“Everything.”

“Can I help?”

He groans again and twists his fingers further through his hair. It hurts, makes his eyes water. Aziraphale’s hand on his back feels heavy as lead.

“Get off me.”

Aziraphale snaps his hand back,”I’m sorry.”

This has never happened. Crowley has had panic attacks before, been so angry and overcome with grief that the only way to express himself has been to smash plant pots on the floor, he’s never literally curled up in a shaking ball on the floor and hurt himself. To be honest, it scares Aziraphale a little bit. He’s completely lost on what to do. He needs to get him to stop hurting himself. 

“Give me your hands,” Aziraphale holds his own out. 

After a few seconds, Crowley releases his grip and sits up. He slides his shivering hands into Aziraphale’s. He doesn’t meet his gaze. 

“What happened?”

Crowley flicks his eyes over the raisins on the floor, the open doors, Aziraphale’s tan Uggs, his hands still shaking violently. It feels like there’s a heavy wool blanket over his head. 

“Jus’ overwhelmed. Th-the dripping, water. Kettle. Um- c-c- it’s it it’s too loud. I’m sorry.” 

“Sensory overload.”

“-huh?”

“It’s where you can’t process input, sensory input. It’s common for autistic people.”

Crowley pauses. “I’m not autistic.”

“Well, you know, it’s not something that I have expertise in but-but you never know. Not saying you are, I mean we  _ are _ angels, I don’t believe human psychology applies to us but it’s maybe something to research if this- this happens more.”

Crowley finally looks him in the eyes. “It’s gotten worse since the fire. Since I… lost you.”

Aziraphale tightens his grip. 

“It’s been more pain, everything is so much more. It hurts more. I’ve always had pain in-in my back and hips but it’s spread and it’s  _ more _ and I can’t listen to music the same. It’s too loud, it  _ hurts _ ,” Crowley drop his head, stares at the floor. His breath catches in his throat. “It’s sometimes like I never saw you again.”

Aziraphale kisses the back of his hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere now.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
